The Hotspur's Extra Hand
by daylighthour
Summary: Inspired by an old sea poem/song called "The Tryphena's Extra Hand." The first four lines are taken directly from the poem. Three separate times when Horatio is in need of an extra hand, and receives the help he needs. Set after "Retribution." Spoilers thereafter apply.


_And he'd stand by wheel and lookout and you'd kind of feel him near_

 _Kind of see him and not see him, kind of hear him and not hear_

 _And the funny thing about it was you somehow couldn't swear_

 _Though you knew it sure as shootin' when the extra hand was there_

I.

It was his the fourth night of lying there in his hammock, thrashing side to side and back and forth, finding no position in the world comfortable enough for sleeping. His heart pounded as though he'd been sprinting, but in truth he'd done nothing but lie there, waiting for the sleep that wouldn't seem to take him.

The problem, Horatio knew, was his mind. Though every inch of his body felt heavier than a barrel of gunpowder, his mind raced incessantly. What would he do the next day, and the next? These four days, these first days of his formal command, he hadn't so much as seen the silhouette of a ship on the horizon. Was he sailing on the wrong course? Were they so lost that they had found a part of the sea over which no one had sailed?

The rational part of his mind told him no, chided him for allowing these thoughts to nibble and gnaw at his sleep-deprived brain. He'd been navigating the seas for years now, a promotion would not have made him forget. And yet still he worried. He worried that his men were worried, and that therefore they doubted his competency as captain. But from all the time he spent in the daylight, pacing the deck back and forth, hands balled in fists behind his back, they didn't seem anxious. Restless sure, but able to find silly things like whittling to occupy themselves. But what if his pacing presence ended up causing them to be nervous? What if they sensed his taut muscles, his roiling stomach, and it seeped into them, like a disease? Fear was surely contagious, that Horatio knew, so anxiety must follow that rule.

Horatio got out of his hammock, reasoning that he may as well stretch his legs or write some more in his reports if he couldn't sleep. But no sooner had he gotten to his feet than he was overcome by a supreme wave of exhaustion. He tried to ignore it (after all, he'd been tired for four nights and still had not a wink of sleep to show for it), but it became almost unbearable. He settled back into his hammock, feeling almost as though a set of hands had pushed him back there.

 _Relax, Horatio_ , a voice, though not his own, whispered in his mind, in his ears. _No sign of trouble means there's nothing to worry about._

"But," Horatio protested, a hoarse whisper. Try as he might though, his eyelids were drooping, full of lead.

 _The men are fine. They don't think of you half as often as you think of them. Sleep now, the morning is for worrying._

And at last, for the first time in four nights, the room was fading, the creaking of the ship growing softer. The rocking waves cradled Horatio like a mother's arms, and he dropped into a still, dreamless sleep.

II.

Horatio awoke, throat drier than leather. He felt sweat rolling in beads from every pore on his body, and though he was shivering violently, the stifling heat of his blankets was almost unbearable. The fever he'd had for days, weeks, months for all he knew, was spiking. He knew this was the worst of it, that if he got through this hour he would be in clear sights of health, but he found himself unsure whether he _wanted_ to make it through the agony. What, then, awaited him on the other side? His bleary mind couldn't conjure up an answer.

He was coughing and spluttering, his body fighting for air though his mind didn't very much care whether he fought or rolled over in defeat. Somehow, Lieutenant Bush had appeared in his quarters and was moving his lips at Horatio, but no sound at all but the rushing of his own blood reached Horatio's ears. Then Bush was at his bedside, holding him down by the shoulder, motioning toward the door. The ship's doctor ran in, slapped ice-cold cloths all over Horatio's burning body, poked and prodded him like an animal at market. The shock of it all made him cry out, but again, he couldn't even hear to tell whether he'd made a sound or not. The doctor's and Bush's faces swam together and then apart so that they were both one and then neither.

It was then Horatio decided that he didn't want to survive the hour. Bush pushed a cup to Horatio's lips, but Horatio snapped his head away, spilling the water down his neck and in his ear. Both Bush and the doctor pulled away. Something trickled from Horatio's mouth, blood or spit or sick or all three, he couldn't tell and he didn't want to. The ship lurched in the storm that raged outside and Horatio wished for a bolt of lighting to split the vessel in two, to sooth him in cool seawater before he drowned and it was all done at last.

But what he got was a voice, a familiar voice whispering to him. _Horatio, drink something. It'll make you stronger_.

 _I don't want to be stronger,_ Horatio told the voice. _I want to be dead._

 _No, you don't,_ the voice countered. _Come on now, just like you wouldn't stand for any of this out of me, I won't stand for any of it out of you._ Horatio felt a cool hand, the perfect temperature, come to rest on his aching forehead. The hand, like the voice, was familiar, as if he'd known the person who they had belonged to years ago. He relaxed into the sensation, and his shivers grew softer.

 _Your fever's just about to break, Horatio,_ the voice told him. _One more push and the battle's won._

"Bush," Horatio croaked, the word like glass shards against his parched throat. The lieutenant, who had been staring vacantly out the window, snapped around at once. A smile danced at his cheeks.

"Yessir?"

"Water," Horatio managed before coughing again. At once Bush was with him again, holding a cup to his lips and tipping the water slowly into Horatio's mouth. This time, he held still and shivered with pleasure as the water slid down his throat. He drank two more cups, and Bush timed strained sobs of relief with the filling of the cup from the pitcher.

III.

The door clicked shut as Bush withdrew, and the sound nearly dashed Horatio's frayed nerves to pieces. He fell against the windowsill, propping himself up there for a moment, leaning his head against the cool glass until he shivered. At this he whirled back around, his breath coming in ragged heaves. The map and compass shifted slightly on the table as the waves picked up, and Horatio wanted to rip the map to shreds, to flip the table on its side, to smash the walls of his captain's cabin until they were driftwood and naught more. But these desires were superficial, no more than masks concealing the one thing he truly wanted to do. Feeling a rush of blood to his head, Horatio collapsed and allowed himself to succumb to it.

Though he allowed his tears to flow freely, he bit savagely down on his fist to muffle any sound. Through bleary eyes he looked down at his report to the admiralty, the last lines about an unexploded shell.

"Damn Bush for calling me brave!" He whispered between shudders. _No, damn yourself,_ he finished the curse in his head, _for being unable to live up to what he called you_. Damn his temper, which he knew only flared because anger was an emotion appropriate for a captain, whereas fear and self-loathing were not. Lately all he'd felt was fear, and so all he'd been was angry. At his men, at his lieutenant, at his _wife_. The shame at his own conduct boiled up in his stomach, and he clenched his jaw against the tears that pummeled his face harder than did a rainstorm.

"God, what am I doing?" he cried out, clasping his trembling hands together as if to pray, but finding no words other than to repeat what had been said in a low moan. "I have no idea what I'm doing."

 _Not many men can say they do, Horatio_. That same voice that had kept him company in sleeplessness and illness spoke again, and just as in those times, the warm timbre set alight some flame of memory in his mind, but he was too tired to inspect it. He let the voice wash over him, like bathwater.

"Admiral Pellew certainly…" Horatio, about to damn his superior but thinking better of it, spoke again, softer still. "I'm not meant to be a captain. Look at me."

And again, just as before, Horatio felt a hand, this time resting on his shoulder, though there was no one else in the room. _I am looking at you, the voice said. And I see nothing but the bravest man I've ever known._

"You too?" he hissed. "That's all I hear out of anyone. Brave, brave, brave. How they'd bite their tongues if they could feel the fear I feel! Make liars out of them all…"

 _Poor Horatio._ If a voice could smile ruefully, so this one did. _So quick to give but so slow to accept the simplest of gifts._

The familiar phrasing turned Horatio's blood cold and he shivered. "Archie?"

 _Took you long enough to recognize an old friend, Captain._

"Archie, forgive me. I thought-"

 _Easy, Horatio, it's alright._ The hand on Horatio's shoulder shifted, and Horatio found he'd rather cut off his own than have it leave him. _There's no shame in needing an extra hand every once in a while._

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Horatio hurriedly mopped the unbecoming wetness from his cheeks. He glanced briefly over his shoulder, but saw no trace that his old comrade had ever been there.

"Enter."

A young marine stood in the doorway. "Leftennant Bush's complement's, sir. A storm's blowing in, sir. He requests your presence on deck."

"Thank you. Tell him I will be up presently."

Once the door had closed, Horatio whispered tentatively. "Archie?"

The reply came quickly. _I'll be here as long as you need me._

Smiling, Horatio nodded and headed up on deck.


End file.
